He was dressed in burgundy-colored pants and a burgundy-and-tan-striped shirt with matching tie. His eyes were a pale blue, and the left one was twitching. Peter was a neurosis on legs, I decided.
Peter's grasp was light, brief, and shaky. "Pleased to meet you, Bebe. Reggie, have you seen Astrid?"
"No."
Peter gave the room a once-over. "She said she'd meet me down here. I don't know what's going on."
"Come on now, Peter," Reggie said. "You know you're always imagining the worst. She's probably gone and gotten her hair done or something. She'll be here."
"I expect so." Twitch. Twitch.
"Will the both of you excuse me?" Reggie said. "I have to call home again." He went out the exit swiftly.
While this conversation was going on, I found my gaze drawn to Peter's tie. Marching down the length of burgundy material was a row of different tie tacks, with one noticeably missing. Could it be the one that had found its way into Darlene's shoe? If so, that would put Peter at the murder scene.
"I see you've got a collection of tie tacks there, Peter," I said.
"Well, you've got to have a gimmick, haven't you?" he said in answer to my question. "Ringo's got the rings, hasn't he? I've got the tie tacks." Twitch.
"You're missing one, aren't you?"
"Er, yeah. Must have fallen off somewhere."
"I'm sorry about Philip."
Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. "Thank you. Bad way to go."
"Did you go to his room yesterday?"
"Me? No."
Fibber! How else would the tie tack have gotten into Philip's room and then into Darlene's shoe?
"Astrid! There you are!" Peter called.
Heads turned all around the room as a curvy girl with waist-length, straight blond hair and bangs entered the room and posed for effect. She wore a gold lame dress that clung to her figure and screamed, "Look at me!" As she began winding her way through the room, I noticed she blew Peter a kiss but showed no intention of hanging on his arm when there was a roomful of press. No, her plans were to work the crowd of reporters.
At my side, Peter didn't seem all that annoyed. Instead he seemed proud of Astrid. "She's a lovely bird, isn't she?"
"Striking," I said.
" 'Ello Peter. You keepin' this lovely brunette all to yerself?"
The speaker was a man in his forties with a Cockney accent. He was a barrel of a man with a red nose, from heavy nights down at the pub, I guessed. His hair was a wiry gray.
"Nigel, this is Bebe Bennett. She works for Bradley Williams at Rip-City. Bebe, this is Nigel, our manager," Peter said.
"Nice to meet you, Miss Bennett," Nigel said.
"Please call me Bebe. I'm sorry for your Joss."
Nigel's face got even redder. Tears sprang to his eyes. He took a long pull from the beer he was holding, and it was a minute before he spoke. "There will never be another like my Philip. Mark my words. 'E was a talent lost to the world too soon."
"You still have us, Nigel," Peter said.
"Right, that's right," Nigel said. "That is, if we still have a contract. You'd know about that, wouldn't you, Bebe, since you work for the record company. What can you tell us?"
"Me?" I asked. "I haven't been told anything. Honest. I'm here tonight to make sure everything goes smoothly. That's all."
"I'm glad you remember that, cupcake," a voice said from behind, startling me. I looked over my shoulder to see Vince Walsh joining our group. He didn't look happy. And his dark suit jacket was covered in dandruff, making me wish I'd slipped that bottle of Head & Shoulders into his desk drawer, as I'd considered doing.
"Mr. Walsh, what's wrong?" I asked.
"The cheese sauce in the fondue is lukewarm. Miss Hawthorne can't be expected to handle everything herself. See to it rather than chitchatting with the talent."
"But I was just making sure the band wasn't bothered by the press," I protested.
Vince flashed his oily smile. "I can help look after them. See to the food like a good woman should."
"I'll talk to you later, Peter, Nigel," I said, then left without another word to Vince. For a talent scout, all he seemed to do was hang around the office, doing what he considered flirting with me, and taking potshots at his boss, Bradley.
The direction of my thoughts changed when I saw Miss Hawthorne engaged in what looked like a heated conversation with a man carving a big roast beef.
Instead of bothering her, I decided to flag Maria and see if she could take care of the fondue. Spotting her with a fresh tray of cheeses, I began making my way toward her—distracted for a moment by the fact that Bradley was still talking to Patty, darn it all—and I noticed that Nigel had moved over to where Keith was falling-down drunk and making a spectacle of himself. The tribute would need to end fairly soon, before everyone was in Keith's state. Maybe I should cut off the free bar. I would have to talk to Miss Hawthorne.
"Maria, there you are. Listen, I need you to help me out with the fondue. Can you see that it gets warmed up? I've had a complaint."
"Sure." Then she leaned toward me. "Speaking of what's hot and what's not, did you get a load of that blond model, Astrid? She's going around the room talking to the reporters—all of them except that blond English reporter, I noticed. You know what she's saying?"
"What?"
"She's saying she was the dead man—Philip's— fiancee."
I seethed. Astrid was a publicity seeker of the worst kind, seizing the opportunity of Philip's death to put out false information that he was not around to refute.
But was she more than that? I looked over to where Astrid spoke in a cool fashion to a group of anxious
reporters. Patty stood next to Bradley, gazing at Astrid with contempt. I remembered Keith saying yesterday that he thought Astrid was the one who'd killed Philip.
But then, Keith himself had motive to want Philip dead, didn't he? The two had fought over the direction of the band. Keith was playing music he didn't want to play.
Then there was Reggie, forced to keep a wife and infant son hidden away from the world at Philip's order.
What about Peter? He seemed very attached to Astrid. Could there have been a romantic triangle among the three of them?
And I had barely scratched the surface. Who knew how deep Keith's fights and jealousy with Philip went? What lengths did Philip go to come between Reggie and his marriage? What about Peter's insecurities and anxieties? Did Philip use them against the drummer?
Instead of answers, the night had brought about more questions. All I really knew was that I had to get to the bottom of who killed Philip, so I could get Darlene out of hot water and help Bradley emerge with a whole skin in front of his great uncle.
As the night drew to a close, upon reflection I realized that other than the minor fact that they were murder suspects, I liked the guys in the band. Funny, huh?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bells were ringing. Wedding bells. Bradley and I were getting married.
No, it was the phone.
I jumped out of bed and dashed barefoot to the kitchen, grabbing the receiver from the wall unit.
"Hello?"
"This is Detective Finelli. I'd like to speak to Darlene Roland."
I glanced at the kitchen clock. Just after eight in the morning. Geez. Where could I say Darlene was? Not in the Hamptons. My hand came up to my hair, and I sifted out a strand to twirl. I always do that when I'm nervous.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Detective. She went for a walk."
"Is this Miss Bebe Bennett?"
"Yes, it is."
"I know Miss Roland is a stewardess. She wouldn't have left town against my instructions, would she?"
"No! I promise you, she's still in New York." Just in the Hamptons, not in the city.
"When did she leave for her walk?"
"You just missed her." Fibbing to the police! Darlene owed me big-time for this.
"Would you leave her a message to call me?"
This was just peachy-creamy
. "I will, but our kitchen window is stuck open and sometimes messages get blown away."
"Excuse me?"
" 'Bye!"
I hung up before he could say another word. Phew, that was close. Darlene had better come home soon.
I went back in the bedroom and made up the bed, then had my shower and fixed my hair and makeup. I pulled out a black-and-white herringbone skirt and a white turtleneck sweater. Wearing only my slip and the skirt, I was about to pull on the sweater when the phone rang again. I went to answer it, scared it was Detective Finelli.
"Hello," I said cautiously.
"Bebe, Bradley Williams here."
My heart leaped off a fifty-foot cliff and soared through the air. "Yes, Mr. Williams," I said calmly.
"How are you this morning? Not feeling the effects of last night, are you?"
My hand came up to trace the lace on the edge of my slip. I was talking to Bradley in my underwear! "Um, no. I mean, I didn't have anything to drink. I don't drink much."
"Well, kid, that's good. Listen, I need you to go over to the Legends Hotel and settle our bill there. Evidently Miss Hawthorne forgot to do it. They called me here at home this morning."
A picture of Bradley in his pajamas ran through my mind. Silk or cotton? Checked or striped? Or did he even wear pajamas? I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling light-headed. Finally I said, "I'll take care of it right away."
"I knew I could count on you, kid. Reliable as rain. See you Monday."
Rain? "See you Monday," I said, and stopped myself before I could kiss the receiver, I was so happy to hear his voice.
I spent the next several minutes staring at the phone, then walking aimlessly around the apartment while gazing dreamily into space, wondering how Bradley would
spend his Saturday. An unwanted image of the modishly dressed Patty, reporter, seducer, and enemy-maker, wheedled its way into my mind. I frowned. Mentally, I tossed her out of the picture on her ear. There, that was better.
Instead, I saw Bradley lazily reading the papers, calling his mother, doing the marketing, and thinking about me in my pink dress the night before. Much better.
Finally I pulled on the white turtleneck and a short, flaring black jacket, grabbed my purse, and left the apartment. The day was sunny and mild as I skipped down the front steps, making me feel adventurous. I could see Harry sleeping behind the high school that fronted Lexington Avenue. That made me frown. But you could only help someone who wanted to be helped. And I was sure I would continue to help Harry with quarters when I could.
I took the bus to the hotel, congratulating myself at navigating my way around the city—it wasn't the subway, but Darlene would approve—and was settling the bill at the front desk when Keith sauntered in.
"Bebe, I'm so glad I ran into you."
"Hi, Keith," I said, signing my name to the last document.
He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a dark blue velvet jacket over a white shirt. His long dark hair looked freshly washed. He didn't appear to be feeling the effects of the night before. "Bebe, I meant to make plans for us to go shopping for your furniture today, but then I didn't see you again last night."
That's because you were drunk, I thought. "Oh, that's okay. I had to come by here to settle the tab from yesterday. Do you still want to go?"
"Definitely. I'm all yours," he said, and grinned, spreading his arms wide.
"I'm game," I said, and smiled back.
Traffic was congested on the cab ride down to the Village, and I vowed again to learn to use the subway,
but we soon found ourselves at Goodbye's Secondhand Furniture. Inside the packed store, Keith and I laughed over an old maroon-colored Victorian settee and chair. He mimicked a proper Victorian gentleman, complete with imaginary handlebar mustache, sitting very straight on the settee.
I cracked up laughing when he mimed to the butler to bring him his lady wife (making a figure eight with his hands) so that she might pour the tea. I was glad to see him up to boyish shenanigans, so I obligingly played the part of his wife, carrying the imaginary tray and serving him while he scolded that the tea was not hot enough.
"Hey, there, what are you two doing?" said an older man with gray hair and suspenders, obviously the proprietor.
"We were just having a look at your furniture, mister," Keith explained with a laugh.
The man frowned mightily. "This isn't a place for pranksters. Move on."
I spoke up. "We really are looking for some secondhand pieces."
But the owner wasn't having it. "I don't want no long-haired jokers in my store. Go along with you."
"Stuck-up man with stuck-up furniture, aren't you?" Keith sneered.
"I'll call the police!" The man moved toward the telephone.
"Come on, Keith. Let's go," I said, mortified.
"Stupid old man!" Keith shouted as we left the shop.
Once outside, I adopted a brisk step to get us away from there as quickly as possible. I wasn't used to people being rude to me in shops. Everyone was normally as courteous to me as I was to them. I glanced at Keith's angry face. Once again I thought of his temper, which was so quick to rise. I could imagine the fights he'd had with Philip.
At the next shop we went to, Favorite Things, I found a smart-looking modern bright, pink sectional with metal
legs that I fell instantly in love with. There was a cigarette burn on the right-hand side of it, near the armrest. That could easily be covered up by, say, a gold-colored pillow.
The price tag was more than I wanted to spend, but Keith insisted I leave the matter to him. Call me a coward, but I moved on to look at other items while he negotiated the price of the piece with the shop owner, this time an older lady.
As the minutes passed and I heard no raised voices, I dared a quick peek over my shoulder. The lady was smiling at Keith, apparently taken in by his charm. I admired a turquoise fake-fur rug that would be striking with the pink sectional.
Twenty minutes later Keith had arranged for both the sectional and the rug to be delivered later that day to my apartment, for a price I found incredibly reasonable. I was thrilled and thought with fond anticipation of Darlene's pleased reaction to having real furniture.
"Thank you, Keith. You did a great job." I beamed up at him. We were outside the shop in a crowd of people.
To my surprise, he leaned down and kissed me on the lips. His mouth was warm, and he was a good kisser. I hardly had much time to react, though, before he drew away and smiled at me.
Embarrassed at this public display, and torn because of my feelings for Bradley, I'm sure I blushed, which only caused Keith to laugh and grab my hand. "I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat."
"Have you had hot dogs from a street vendor?" I asked, anxious to talk about anything but the kiss. "You haven't really tasted New York until you've done so."
"I do want to taste New York," he said.
"Well, come on," I said, holding his hand and racing to the end of the block. We got hot dogs with the works and ate them while walking down the busy streets, the crowds of people heavy around us. Hot dogs from the
vendors who worked the street corners were one of my guilty pleasures. As I polished mine off, I grinned. I felt like a curious kitten learning her new surroundings. One day I'd be a cat who would know New York like the back of her paw. I'd wind myself around Bradley and—
"Delicious," Keith proclaimed of his hot dog, bringing me out of my daydream. "Now I need a drink to wash it down. Let's go back to the hotel."
"Um, I really should go home to wait for the furniture to be delivered."
"Nonsense. You've got time to see me back to the hotel and have a drink first. You wouldn't want me to get lost in the big, bad American city, would you?" he said in mock fear.
I smiled. "All right."
Soon we were back in the Legends Hotel lounge, where Keith ordered his usual bourbon. He told me to order a strawberry daiquiri.
"I've never tried one of those," I admitted.
&
nbsp; "It's mostly just fruit juice, really," he said, lighting a cigarette.
"Okay." I was feeling up for anything. After all, I'd spent the morning with an English pop star buying furniture for my New York City apartment!
The drinks arrived, and Keith drank two-thirds of his in a few swallows. Mine was a pretty confection that tasted like a dessert. I drank it thirstily. Keith lit another cigarette.
Feeling the need to get back to the investigation, I tested the waters by saying, "You're really a very creative person, Keith. It's a shame Philip didn't take more of your ideas, as far as the band was concerned."
Bingo! Moody Keith's face turned into a storm cloud. He finished his drink and ordered another, blowing smoke out of his nostrils. He leaned close to me. "I tell you, Bebe, Philip was a rotter. Demanding that his name headline the band, insisting on playing only pop tunes."
"What about 'Get out of My Way'? That's not a pop tune." I opened my eyes to their widest, which was sorta easy. I was feeling very relaxed and kinda floaty.
Keith swallowed half of his new drink and stubbed out his cigarette. "Oh, yeah, that song. Philip's own personal little project. He told us we were lucky he didn't start his own solo album and put the song on that. We should feel fortunate that he was willing to let it be a Beefeaters title. Ha! It didn't go along with the others, and it was a bad song to boot. I, for one, would have been happy to let him try to put it on a solo album."
"Was he really thinking of a solo project?" I was having trouble focusing on the issue at hand. In fact, everything was bleary. I drank some more of my daiquiri to clear things up. It tasted so sweet, and I love strawberries.
"You know, I think the rotter was. He had delusions of grandeur, if you ask me. With his name out front, I think he thought he could eventually leave the rest of us behind and become a solo act. Can you believe the cheek?"
"Something's on my cheek?" I said, picking up my napkin and trying to wipe my face.
Keith chuckled. "No, luv. That's not what I meant. Not much of a drinker, are you? I find you charming, innocent, and wise all wrapped up in a very pretty package. Listen, I have my own tunes that I wrote. Real blues stuff. The genuine article."
It's A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder Page 6
